Let Freedom Rain
by lovehorses13
Summary: When Rosalind Freedom Jones volunteers for the 83rd Hunger Games of the Capitol-when the Districts are the ones to kick back and watch-she does it only to save a cripple from certain death. She certainly doesn't bargain for the President's grandson.
1. Chapter 1

Its been 83 years since the war. When they took Panem. They took it and made it into something else. Still terrible. Still horrifying. Only now the 13 districts are the captors, and we are their prisoners.

I hate the Capitol. I hate the districts for making us live so badly for 83 years.

But mostly?

I hate the Games.


	2. Chapter 2: The Reaping

"_Carter Harkins" _I squeezed my eyes shut. _"May the odds be ever in your favor….Carter Harkins" _Nonononono. _"May the odds…. Carter Harkins"_ NO._ "Odds. Carter. CarterCarterMaytheodds….Carter Harkins. May the odds be ever in your favor, Carter Harkins."_

NO. I jolted myself out of my sleep. Carter. Oh, President's bloody hanky, Carter.

_Carter's dead. Dead. You're here. Actually-where are you? Where are you?_

I sat up and rubbed my sleepy eyes. Where was I? Somewhere cold-wet-damp-but it smelled like ash. Of course-Carter's eternal resting place. Where his shroud was burned. I stood, ready to face the coming day-the worst one of the year. But I couldn't do it without doing what I do best first. Riding horses. Technically, it's illegal but I've never paid much attention to the rules. The districts don't care as long as you're miserable and hungry. As long as they have control, they don't care what you do. People literally get away with murder everyday here, but you can't really blame them. Because you know they are just as cold and hungry as you. My favorite horse, the only thing they could take away anymore, was a beautiful black mare who understood me more than any human but Carter. And Carter was dead.

I whistled, knowing Rain would find me no matter what. I heard her trot up behind me and snuffle my hair, which little Mia swore was still red as ever. I smiled and buried my face in her wiry mane. I let her horsey smell of dust and hay and something else I can't name run into my nostrils. I rub my hands over her ebony hide. Then, in one swift moment I am on my darling girl's back and we are walking and trotting and cantering and I forget all about everything for a few hours, and in Panem that's a blessing.

But the bell ruined it. I slid off Rain's back regretfully and whispered goodbye. The bell signifies the Reaping, which will start soon. I followed the sound of people back to the town square, and met with other 13 year olds. This year, my name is in that tiny glass ball 43 times. I have 43 chances to get to the Hunger Games.

Everyone hates the Hunger Games, unless of course you live in a district. That's where they're broadcasted.

Yup, that's right folks! Not only are 24 of the people you've known all your life forced to fight to the death, YOU get to WATCH. Wonderful!

And, yes, that's what happened to Carter. That's why he's in the ground instead of making me laugh right here. He was killed in the Games, the President's Games.

While you're listening, add that to Things I Hate About Panem. I HATE President Gale. He came from District 12, our HERO, 83 years ago. The day he's a hero is the day I fly next to a pig.

Oh, before I forget. Back when the Capitol was in power, we had 75 Hunger Games total. So, to do the math, the Capitol killed 1,748 children for entertainment. In the 82 Games the districts have killed 1,909. (One Quarter Quell for each where the number of tributes were doubled)

Our number will go up 23 again this year. And in a few hours we'll know who's going to die.

It's Reaping Day in Panem. In 2 hours 50 billion listeners will tune in on their sets in their comfy couches with more food in their house then I'll ever see in my life, just to see the emaciated bodies of Capitol children paraded around the center square. They'll watch so they can meet the future actors in their little drama.

I don't worry though. I'll never be an actor. If it's my name they pull out of that little ball, let them bend to _my_ will.

My name is Rosalind. For those of you who don't know, Rosalind was a Shakespearean character who took charge of her story.

And I'm gonna take charge of mine.

**Gale's grandson-**Jay's POV

I hate Reaping Day. It's the day that starts the worst month of the year. It's when I have to look at my grandfather, who I used to respect, pull 24 names from a glass ball. 23 of the owners of those names will soon be dead-and it's as if he killed them himself.

I'm weak-I know that, Granddad knows it, Mom knows it, Dad knows it, my brother knows it, I know it.

I know it.

I put on my Reaping clothes-Uncomfortable, but necessary, as I have to make an appearance to appease our followers.

Along with my family, I'll have to look each tribute in the eyes as they walk up the stairs. I'll have to know their name. Know how they look. Their strengths and weaknesses and how desperate they will become in the arena. What they will do to preserve their life. But the worst? Knowing I probably deserve that arena ten times more.

I'm told to be grateful-GRATEFUL even though by all definition and in everything but name my grandfather is a murderer. My mother says he gets some sort of grim satisfaction from it-like it atones for something that happened in The Rebellion. Because, yeah, the fact he enjoys it makes it SO much better. Totally.

"JAY!" My sister Kat appears at the door to my bedroom-Dark hair swinging and already in her Reaping clothes. Kat and I get along more than anyone in our family. She hates the Hunger Games as much as I do.

"Good, you're ready. Granddad wants us at the entrance to the stage area now." I nod. She grabs my hand and pulls me up. She really hates making Granddad mad-I think she's scared he'll put me in that arena-which is why there's one thing in the entire universe that I can't tell her.

When you go through my house, it's like a maze waiting to trap you in a corner. Probably the only thing I can say for myself is I don't get lost easily.

We enter the small entrance room to the stage, where my Granddad Gale who doubles as President of Panem is looking for us. He makes me want to puke but instead I force a smile and a nod. He nods back, and then our whole family is forced on the stage into spotlight I never wanted.

"LADIES and GENTLEMEN-the PRESIDENT of PANEM!" calls out the announcer. Granddad takes the microphone and smiles, holds up his hands to stop the applause. The APPLAUSE. As in, support for this monster, and the things he has done.

"It is my great pleasure-" _Pleasure_, I think in disgust. "-to welcome you all to the reaping for the 83rd Hunger Games!" More cheers, all around from everyone but the Capitol people. They are standing in giant groups, according to age.

"May the odds be EVER in your favor-I'm sure you have people rooting for you, contestants. And now! Let the reaping begin!" A giant glass ball is placed in front of Granddad that holds all the names. Over 200,000 names, and 24 are about to be called.

"DARREN HOLMICK" A murmur goes through the crowd, and soon we see why. Darren is a hulking mass of a 17 year old. He's huge with big steely brown eyes and an attitude that exudes toughness.

"TALWYN JONISON" Up the steps comes a scared but determined 15 year old girl. She's got black hair and an exotic appearance, because, well, she's green. Like, actually green. You hear of tattooists in the Capitol all the time, but rarely a full body appearance like Talwyn.

"TRIANNA LOBLO" Trianna's not green, but she's also not big or special. Trianna's 13, with long blonde hair and chocolate eyes.

"CHACK CHARLES" is a 18 year old bull, and you can already see the alliance between him and Darren.

"GREY BENTHORN" is a small, 12 yr old kid.

Vivian Bevin, Tremont Zona, Carlton Rook, Amy Amadon, Seth Horch, Nina Talhon, Talon Lovett, Chreesa Hitlet, Benji Carro, Kika Kris, Jonah Kale, Zandra Okenary, Sand Sareaux, Granber Pronson are all called.

And then they called Mia Warren. Mia was 12, but small for her age, and she was missing her arm. Not kidding-an ARM. This meant, of course, certain death in the arena. It would have been, but someone volunteered. NOBODY volunteers for the games, least of all a girl no more than 13. But that's exactly what this girl did. She wasn't big or bloodthirsty, or even upset in any way. She walked up the stairs like she owned them. She had beautiful light red hair and light green eyes, but she didn't seem to _see_ anything. She would stumble a little on flat ground, couldn't get up the stairs forever and didn't know where people were until someone led her over.

"Well, look what we have here. A volunteer! Didn't want her to get all the glory, did you now!" Granddad chuckles jovially. The girl stares at him, and says loudly, clearly and confidently,

"Actually, it was more like I didn't want her to die. I like Mia. She doesn't deserve the Arena of Death."

Her voice was like bells and I was held captive. Granddad chuckled nervously, while the Capitol people roared with laughter and cheers. The tributes sitting on the stage stomped their feet to show their appreciation.

"What's your name, Missy?" He asked.

"Rosalind Freedom Jones. Not Missy, you creep." He laughed again…faker, somehow, this time. Then Darren stood up and led Rosalind over to where he was sitting.

After Rosalind and her beautiful green eyes took a seat, nothing happened besides Odi Parsons, Noah Kidos, and Fe Montralk were picked as tributes for the Hunger Games.

The twenty-fourth tribute was always the worst, because by then they weren't expecting to be picked, but no one should have worried this year anyway, because the twenty-fourth tribute wasn't in the crowd, like they should have been.

The twenty-fourth tribute was on stage and his name was Jay Hawthorne.

The twenty-fourth tribute of the 83rd Hunger Games was _me._

**OK SOOO…like it? Hate it? REVIEW!**

**~loveshorses13**


	3. Chapter 3

**Rosalind's POV**

The shock was immediate. All the Capitol kids knew Jay Hawthorne's name. In kindergarten (at least the starving gets _educated _before they die!) we literally drew bloody pictures of him for the teacher and then made up a story. It involved his head on a stick.

Point is-Jay Hawthorne was on the hit list of four year olds. There was no way anyone was going to stick him in an arena with 23 fully armed and dangerous Capitol children, most older than him-not purposely, anyway, which meant they were probably going to send someone else. I leaned back, waiting for the redrawing.

"What does he look like?" I asked Darren. (I said we drew him. I never actually _saw _him. Because, you know, I'm blind.)

"A scrawny pushover-you could beat him with your eyes closed." He replied, chuckling at his (bad) joke.

"No, never heard THAT one before" I said sarcastically. He knocked my knee to let me know he was kidding, and then all of a sudden dragged me out of my seat shouting! People's feet were running everywhere; I couldn't hear anything but what sounded like a stampede.

My ears are my best defense. I can't see anything but black all the time, so my hearing is sensitive…but it's more than that-it's that my hearing keeps me alive. Talking even irritates me sometimes and this was what sounded like hundreds upon hundreds of people screaming and running and all I could do was turn my head wildly in all directions because I had no idea what was _happening!_

I couldn't help, I couldn't run, I couldn't fight, I had no idea what to fight, and I was utterly helpless. That's the worst feeling in the world, when you are at someone else's mercy, deadweight, incompetent, pointless. Someone who's, in all reality, was a dead body, only one that took up vital resources from other people.

"NO!" was the word I heard most, what I could make out from the noise.

"**SILENCE, NOW!" **President Gale Hawthorne roared. "The rules are the rules. Jay Hawthorne is the 24th tribute to the Hunger Games. Thank you and good night."

Meanwhile I was shaking my head in confusion, he couldn't be a tribute. I mean, it hadn't really sunk in yet that I was a tribute, but this, Jay Hawthorne, this was our death sentence. They couldn't possibly be serious! If he went in to the Games….that would mean the President would make him come home.

There was only one way to come home from the Hunger Games-as a victor. And they had just picked their victor, which seriously, seriously sucked for us.

"This way tributes." a ladies' voice said to us. "This is the way to the train." Darren grabbed my hand; I could tell it was his from the indents of his brand. It's a thief's brand because he stole food, most people have one so that the branders got bored and individualized them-Darren's had a number on it. Its 5178, which in the District's mind means 'good for nothing'; in mine, it means 'brother' even though we aren't related.

The walk to the train was uneventful, I only tripped twice. But then I found my room. And I don't usually swear, but _damn._ An attendant showed me the features, and they really go all out on slaughter trains. I have pillows everywhere, my bed is SO soft, and I literally sink every time I trip or lay down. I have a scented shower, and a computer…they probably shouldn't have given me the computer because now its blasting out country music as loud as possible. And OH MY GOD the _sound system…_Pure heaven.

And then I found the menu system. The one thing all Capitol people are…is hungry. All the time, so hungry the ache is permanent, it never goes away. You try to ignore it and get on with your life, but it always eats back at you, making your stomach seem emptier with every step. So this, this meant life; and my floor was soon covered in plates of the stuff.

"Keep it down in there!" I heard an unfamiliar voice yell through my door. I turned down the music, and said "it's open." I heard the door click and knew whoever it was came in.

I went through my voice evaluation. It was a guy, about 13 or 14, but what really got me was his accent…it wasn't Capitol. There was only one tribute who didn't have a Capitol accent and that meant…

"Jay Hawthorne?" I asked, well only to be polite…I knew it had to be Jay. Everyone else on the slaughter train was Capitol.

"How did you…? I mean…of course…ummm…err." he said (very articulately, too).

"Accent, District boy… let's put it this way. You sound rich." I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh. Umm wow. That's a lot of food to go to waste." he asked me. It made me madder than words. _He'd_ been fed his whole life. _He'd _had a big family. _He'd _had a big house and a warm bed. _He _didn't have to watch his friends die every year. And _he _wasn't going to die now, so what right did _he _have to tell me that it was too much food.

"Dude. If I wasn't saving you for the arena, it would be you on those plates." I told him.

"I didn't mean-"he replied.

"Just get out. Just get out."

**Jay Hawthorne's POV**

I looked at Rosalind. I really looked at her, and I thought back to the other tributes. And here's the problem:

I can't kill them; I don't have the guts. And looking at her face contort with what looked like hatred after I said something about food…well, they seem ready to kill me.

I was walking back to my room when I heard my name.

"Hawthorne needs to die. Somehow. Or the United's going to lose everything we've worked for; namely weapons and planning space, mainly leaders and mascots to keep people's spirits up." I heard Chack Charles say.

"Not to mention courage, hope, and members." Sand Sareaux added. I peaked in and swore under my breath, because everyone was there. I heard a clamor of voices, all saying "ME! I'll do it! Except for Rosalind, who spoke next.

"Here's the problem you're all forgetting. He's the President's grandson. That means he's untouchable-the Gamemakers will make sure of that. And even if we do kill him, it will mean war. They'll kill the Gamemakers and their families, then the tributes and our families, then the victors, then the rest of the Capitol! The United won't have a chance!" she whisper-yelled.

"So what do we do then, Rose? 'Cuz if we can't kill him and we can't let him win, how exactly do you plan on winning this thing?"

Rosalind didn't know. I don't know either.


End file.
